


love as a four letter word

by asideofourown



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 13:49:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19888858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asideofourown/pseuds/asideofourown
Summary: Aziraphale anxiously bit his bottom lip, and then seemed to change tack.  “You know, sometimes the things that humans do confuse me,” he said.  “I rather don’t get the appeal of some of your bebop, for example.  But they do… occasionally… have some nice ideas.  Especially about love.  And, ah, some other related things.  To demonstrate love.”Thatfour letter word, love— the way Aziraphale said it, like no other angel would, could… it wasn’t quite so bad as Crowley had used to think.  Rather good, in all honesty.  Rather nice.Crowley gazed back at him.  He felt naked, without his dark glasses hiding his eyes.  “Angel,” he said hoarsely.  “Just say you want to kiss me.”





	love as a four letter word

**Author's Note:**

> listen,,,,,,,, i could read 35672836723 love confession scenes and never get tired of it,,,,,,, and felt the burning need to Contribute,,,,,,
> 
> Enjoy <3

Aziraphale was a being of Love.

Love with a capital L, that was— the kind of eternal, all-encompassing, universal Love for all creatures large and small.The kind of Love that all angels were supposed to embody, the kind of abstract, almost absent love that Gabriel and Michael and every other angel were meant to champion.It felt worryingly detached, sometimes, that sort of Love; so spread out, so universal, that it didn’t seem to mean much at all in the end, not in any real way.

And that scared Aziraphale, just a little bit. Not that he would ever admit it.

But what set Aziraphale apart, what had ended up getting him in trouble, was that he was also a being of love.He Loved all creatures, all creations on God’s earth in an impossibly large and nearly ineffable way.

And he loved sitting inside on a rainy day with a warm mug of cocoa and a nice book.He loved taking a walk in the park, enjoying the sunshine and the chirping birds.He loved eating out at little restaurants, tasting new things, whether he was doing it alone or with his (supposed) adversary by his side.

Aziraphale Loved Crowley, of course, in the same way he was meant to Love humanity, the forest, or a pebble.But he also loved him.

Only, it took the end of the world to get him to say so.

* * *

Crowley was most decidedly _not_ a being of Love.

Or so he insisted, often very vehemently.He was a demon, and everyone knew that demons didn’t Love.They weren’t even capable of Love.Crowley had scoffed at Love before, in the past, in the bitter way of a creature desperately trying to hide his seething jealousy.Love was not an emotion Crowley had claimed to experience since before his Fall, since he had sauntered out of Heaven in a painful blaze of flame, trailing his then-tattered wings behind him.

Crowley had a lot of feelings about four letter words.Words like fuck, damn, shit, arse, he rather liked— had even subtlety precipitated the creation of a few.Other four letter words, words like Good and Nice and Kind and Love… he wasn’t quite so fond of those.But love, though... love, in a very human, very mortal way, was less foreign.Less _Holy._ It made humans do some very, very stupid things, after all, so it couldn’t be _all_ Good.

And that was what set him apart, got him in trouble.Like any other demon, Crowley didn’t know, wouldn’t know, Love.But he did have some experience with love, could understand the distinction in a way the other denizens of Hell just didn’t.

It only took the Apocalypse to get him to say so.

* * *

Crowley settled himself down on the couch in Aziraphale’s back room, his glass of wine held loosely in one hand, his tinted glasses left on a table somewhere in the other room. Across from him, Aziraphale bustled around, pouring himself a drink before putting the bottle away for the time being. 

Crowley shifted absently in his seat, sprawling out a little, and it was a complete coincidence when there happened to be just enough room for one other person to sit beside him on the couch. Aziraphale smiled and did so, taking a small sip of his wine and humming thoughtfully. 

“Cheers,” Crowley said in a quiet voice, and clinked his glass with the angel’s. It felt right, to be a little quiet, the still and peaceful air of the bookshop broken only by the faint classical strains of a record player in the front room and the occasional rush of a car out late on the streets outside. 

“Cheers,” Aziraphale replied with another smile. When he leaned back against the couch, to get a little more comfortable, his foot brushed against Crowley’s, and he took another slow sip of his drink to distract himself. 

Tonight, they drank not to forget, not to mourn, but to celebrate in a subdued way the continuation of the world. To celebrate that there would be plenty more November the 23rds, dozens and hundreds of them, to come. It had been Crowley’s idea, despite the fact that the Apocalypse had been averted weeks before, and Aziraphale hadn’t found it in himself to disagree. It even seemed like a good idea, that quiet night, to finally talk. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, and this time when his foot nudged Crowley’s it was entirely intentional. 

Crowley glanced over, his slitted pupils wider than usual in the muted light of the backroom. “Hm?” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, another sip of wine to fortify himself. “I think perhaps we ought to talk,” he said levelly. 

One of Crowley’s eyebrows went up a little. “Oh? What about, then?” He spoke with the smooth, unruffled confidence of a being who had spent the last 6,000 years believing that he was very cool. 

Aziraphale hadn’t been fooled about that for quite some time. “About us,” he said firmly, and there was only a small twinge of very _human_ nerves in the place where his stomach might have been. 

Crowley’s slouch diminished a little, as alert as he was willing to appear for the moment. He had had an inkling, of course, that they might eventually have to Talk, but he hadn’t prepared for it to be tonight. He had chalked up the nervousness he had felt emanating from Aziraphale as the usual residual anxieties about their meeting, the fact that Heaven and Hell had been leaving them alone notwithstanding. He hadn’t thought that… well. 

“About us,” he repeated quietly, and winced a little at the way his words hissed a bit on the end. Aziraphale nodded. 

The two studied each other, both cautious in slightly different ways. They were both quite aware, of course, about the Thing between them. A delicate, ephemeral Thing, that had existed since the Apocalypse, since 2007, since 1967, 1941, 1862, 1793, 1601, 4004 BCE. 

Crowley hadn’t wanted to poke at it, sure that nothing good would come of it— _You go too fast for me_ still rang in his ears from time to time. 

Aziraphale had been petrified for centuries, had seen some of his worst fears poured from a jug into a dingy bathtub in Hell. 

The days after the end times put things into perspective, just as much as millennia together had. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his eyes fixed on the slender fingers wrapped around the demon’s wine glass, darting for just a moment up to his face. “I think I’m nearly caught up with you. I hope so, anyway.” 

Crowley gave him a tiny, wobbly smile. “I _should_ hope so,” he replied. “It’s been thousands of years.” 

“So long?” Aziraphale whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. Crowley didn’t answer— the expression on his face was answer enough. He looked down into the dregs of his wine, blushing in a way no demon really did. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured in that gentle tone of his. 

Crowley looked up from his glass, and if he had had a human heart it probably would have skipped a beat. Aziraphale was gazing at him with more unbridled affection than he had seen in 6,000 years. “Angel?” Crowley replied, and his voice cracked embarrassingly. 

Aziraphale anxiously bit his bottom lip, and then seemed to change tack. “You know, sometimes the things that humans do confuse me,” he said. “I rather don’t get the appeal of some of your bebop, for example. But they do… occasionally… have some nice ideas. Especially about love. And, ah, some other related things. To demonstrate love.” 

_That_ four letter word, love— the way Aziraphale said it, like no other angel would, could… it wasn’t quite so bad as Crowley had used to think. Rather good, in all honesty. Rather nice. 

Crowley gazed back at him. He felt naked, without his dark glasses hiding his eyes. “Angel,” he said hoarsely. “Just say you want to kiss me.” 

Aziraphale reached over, set his glass on the table that suddenly found itself there. “Crowley,” he said steadily. “I would very much like to kiss you.” 

Crowley did not so much as set down his glass as toss it away, and it miraculously survived its violent migration to the floor next to the couch. “I’ve wanted— for so long, I—“ Crowley said. 

Aziraphale swallowed hard, moved a little closer. “I know,” he said softly. “Oh, Crowley, so have I.” 

He reached out, or maybe they both did— their hands met in the middle of the small space left between them, fingers lacing together as natural as anything. It was hard to tell who made the first move, who leaned in first, but perhaps it didn’t much matter, because then they were kissing, slowly, gently, sweetly. 

When they parted Aziraphale was smiling giddily, and Crowley was trying very hard not to lose his cool. “Aziraphale,” he whispered reverentially. 

Aziraphale cupped his face with both hands like he was holding something indescribably precious. “Crowley,” he replied, and his voice was just as worshipful. 

_I love you,_ Aziraphale meant when he handed over a tartan thermos in a dimly lit car, when he stood with his sword and made desperate threats in a shaking airfield, when he toasted to the world and smiled with his entire being. 

_I love you,_ Crowley meant when he miracled manacles at the Bastille, bombs and books during the Blitz, returned that toast with more affection than he had ever imagined showing anyone. 

_I love you,_ they meant as they leaned close, each the sun to the other’s orbit. 

Aziraphale smiled gently, his forehead resting against Crowley’s. “We have time, my dear,” he murmured. 

Crowley reached out, wrapped an arm around his waist, pulled him closer, and whispered before kissing him again, “I want an eternity, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm [here](https://asideofourown.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into.


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